


The Power of Your Intense Fragility

by Ani



Series: Unclose Me (The Falls) [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ani/pseuds/Ani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m not trying to be cruel,” he explained (this was true, although he could tell, without John mentioning, that he wasn’t doing a perfect job of it, and it was also true that he would be cruel if he deemed it necessary). “I simply want you to understand the parameters of our relationship at the time.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Power of Your Intense Fragility

            “I would like to talk to you about my husband,” Sherlock said, settling lightly into the parlour chair. It was John’s chair; he could tell by the way the seat was worn, and pillow arranged to brace his back, and the book abdandoned splayed open on the left arm. He watched Mary sink into the couch, hand resting on her abdomen as if she was trying to hold herself down. She was staring at him in open shock. Reconsidering her physical state, he set the water cup on the table in front of her carefully.

            “You were _married_?” she gasped.

            “No. We hadn’t returned to England in time.”

            She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, which, judging by the tan lines and loosening of her shoe laces, was recent and due to water retention. Still she clutched her fingers together to feel the familiar press of gold into skin. Her throat worked.

            “I’m sure we would have, although the matter was never official. But we were unable to until it was too late.”

            She continued to stare at him with wet eyes.

            “I’m not trying to be cruel,” he explained (this was true, although he could tell, without John mentioning, that he wasn’t doing a perfect job of it, and it was also true that he would be cruel if he deemed it necessary). “I simply want you to understand the parameters of our relationship at the time.”

            “I had…” she said slowly. “No idea.” A short laugh. “I didn’t know you had even dated.”

            “Then you are one of a very few to not make that assumption.”

            Her eyes fluttered shut. “How long were you together?”

            “Hmm. That depends on your presuppositions. If you mean having sex-”

            “How long were you in love?”

            He considered the question with the weight it was due. There were still a multiplicity of correct answers, and he wasn’t sure what she wanted, even with the John’s rule of _be honest_. “That is much harder to date,” he said finally. “Perhaps since we first faced Moriarity. Perhaps since the day we met.”

            John appeared, like a ghost in the door.

            Sherlock watched carefully when Mary turned to stare at him. Her face remained a blank, neutral mask, but her lips were pressed thin and turned down. It was a look, he judged, of sad anger.

            John was slumped down, a visible weight hanging from his shoulders, a look of anguish and bitter self-resentment. Sherlock felt the instant pull to stand up, to hold him, to protect him from some enemy. He imagined himself standing between them, kissing John, his back to Mary. And how much worse that would make it. And the truth that he wanted no one to point out, the truth that John’s enemy here was himself, was also, in some ways, Sherlock. Not, as much was it was ethically simpler, to castigate Mary as some interloper or as some sacrificial angel that would have rescued John and now retreat.

            He realized, with some irritation, that he would have _two_ entire people added to his short list of humans of whom he must fully consider at all times.

            “John doesn’t talk much of your time together,” Mary said. She was still staring at him, but clearly addressing Sherlock. “Of your mystery solving, I mean. Most of it I read on his old blog. I thought – I figured it was too sad, to have lost a friend, and that’s why he couldn’t talk about it. And sometimes –” she cleared her throat thickly, “sometimes the way Greg talked, I thought he’d lost a real… a real good friend, like a partner, someone you only meet once in your life but I never imagined that… that he’d lost his other half.”

            Sherlock watched carefully.

            “It was a secret to everyone,” John whispered. “And then… and then I didn’t know how to say it. And I thought if it just remained a secret it’d be easier, and it wouldn’t matter because when it would ever… make a difference…”

            “Ah hah,” she said bitterly, rolling the irony around on her tongue.

            “It’s not like he could have anticipated that my death was falsified and-”

            “Shut up,” Mary demanded. He decided it was strategic to obey. But she made no further comment in her request for silence, and he sought out John’s gaze, for just a moment. To confirm that this was okay – that this was the right decision, when the pain in the air was making his skin crawl – and John looked back at him, with a haunted desperation, and an understanding passed between them, quiet and light, and John took a deep breath and steadied, having drawn strength, and it was just a brief glance but Mary put her head in her hands and stared crying.

            John was immediately by her side. “Don’t touch me,” she ordered, shoulders heaving. It was a strange sort of crying, with tears and with gasps for air and a torn-looking face, but no noise. No noise at all.

            Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Inconvenient. But he answered it anyway, as he was obviously not going to be of any help with the crying situation. It was Davies’ number; he rolled his eyes and didn’t wait for him to finish his brisk summary.

            “I _told_ Lestrade, I’m _retiring_.”

            “There are three – how are you _retiring_?”

            “By doing so. It’s not terribly complicated, Davies, perhaps if you –”

            “You can’t just quit, we let you back in even after –”

            “If I can create the damn job I’m certainly quite capable of stopping it.” he snapped.

            Davies growled. There was the roar of traffic in the background. “And _why_?”

            “I’m taking an early retirement,” Sherlock answered, “to spend time with my family.”

            The line went dead.

            He put his phone back away as a high pitched scream wrenched out of Mary’s throat.

            “I should have –” John instantly began.

            “No.” Mary stood up, walked away from them, to the door of the parlour that led to the stairs. She set her shoulders and stared down at them. Tears still drying, her eyes with a burning fire like a cold moon. Sherlock was again impressed by John’s selection of spouse: not as good as himself, certainly, but intelligent and strong of spirit and not afraid to fight.

            “I’m not angry because you lied,” she said. “Or that you hid the truth from me. Or I _am_ but that’s not the important thing. I could forgive that. If I really had to. If you promised me you’d never seen him again and we just concentrated on our daughter –”

            Sherlock ammended his mental compliment. It would not do for Mary to try and fight harder then _he_ did.

            “I’m mad because this is extremely unfair.”

            “Of course,” John began, but she held up her hand.

            “No. You don’t get it. This is an unfairness that goes beyond, beyond having an emotional affair when your new wife is pregnant this is…. this is a _cosmic_ unfairness. Because I get it, okay! I see what I’m supposed to do here! I see how much you two _love_ each other and how you’re _perfect_ for each other and how no one can possibly compare and how now that the impossible has happened I’m just supposed to…” She looked at John. “Supposed to step aside. Not because you asked me, John. Not because you ever would. But because it is just the right damn thing to do and anyone can see that. Even I can see that. And because it’s the _right_ thing to do I _have_ to and it’s _not fucking fair._ ”

            Sherlock felt his eyebrows raise so high they hurt. He’d never expected _that_. That was a decisive win so quick he spun to cope. So quickly it was even suspicious. John’s face held a look he couldn’t even understand.

            “And I don’t want to be with someone,” she said, “who is in love with someone else. Because nothing we can ever do will change that. And I don’t want it. I don’t want _you_. Not _this_ John. I liked some… some imaginary composite John who is gone and I’ll recover and find someone else and… and _this_ John Watson can go be with his Sherlock Holmes and then Madeline and I can just…”

            She sat back down, on the floor. “I hurt and I’m tired.”

            “Mary,” John started.

            “Shut up.”

            There was a long silence.

            “Sherlock can talk,” she amended.

            Then he understood.

            “You are almost completely correct,” he said, “and taking the mature decision because it is better for both yourself and John. You are right in taking the short term pain for a longer happiness.”

            “Hooray,” she said, so bitter it must taste like denatonium on her tongue.

            “But you’re incorrect in assuming this has nothing to do with the child. In fact, John keeps preventing me from any action in consideration of her.”

            Her eyes flickered to John, who nodded.

            “That’s why I’m no longer a consulting detective,” he finished.

            It took a few minutes for the thoughts to correctly organize themselves through Mary’s mind, and then she bolted upright so fast that she wobbled and something went swimming through her skin, a foot pressing out of her womb like a shark fin rising sleekly and vanishing back into the depths.

            “No,” she said, “no no _no_.”

            “I’ll choose our daughter above all else,” John said firmly, quietly.

            “You have no right to my daughter!” she shrieked at Sherlock. “You’re a _stranger_. A stranger who’s, who’s, _killed_ people and I’ve heard all the stories and how _dare_ you think you can take my husband and my child!”

            Sherlock reconsidered how smoothly the right conclusions were collecting.

            “If not being a murderer is your requirement for parenting you’ll find –”

            “No,” John told him steely.

            Sherlock held up his hands, to demonstrate how harmless he was. “I have no intention of removing your child from you. I simply anticipate being in her presence as John’s husband and, if possible, a stepfather. I’ve already –”

            “This keeps getting worse. I think _no worse_ , and there is worse. I’m going to vomit. Excuse me.”

            She turned and walked from the room.

            “Well,” Sherlock said, “I think we’ve met most of our goals.”

            John laid his head on the floor and groaned miserably.

            “I think I did well. All things considered.”

            “I don’t even know what to do.”

             Sherlock slipped out of the chair and joined him on the floor, rubbing his back.

            “Are we doing the right thing, Sherlock?”

            “From a perspective of utilitarian ethics or –”

            John gave him the look of _not good_ , which he couldn’t translate, so he attempted a different track, now smoothing down his hair. “Mary saw it instantly. Far quicker than I did, even, much less you. This is all for the better, as we’d all be unhappy not being in the right arrangement and we can’t unfeel what has already occurred. This is the pain of the bandage removal and nothing more.”

            “We’ve hurt her.”

            “Mm. Momentarily necessary.”

            “No, Sherlock, I’m afraid…”

            There was a soft click on the door, and they both fell silent, Sherlock removing his hands. Mary walked back in, looking pale but not ill. “Water.”

            John handed her the cup. She emptied it. “John. What would you do if I held a gun to your head?”

            “Er,” he said, eyes flickering to the distance of the door.

            “As a hypothetical.”

            “Ask you to remove it,” he said. “Worry about you. Worry for myself. Ask if someone has made you do this. Remove the gun from your hands as quickly as I could.”

            “And what if Sherlock did so?”

            “Trust he was…” John trailed off. “Ah.”

            “Communicative property?” Sherlock asked.

            “Yes. This is about her now.” She brushed her hair back, redid the bun. “John, would you let Sherlock be alone with her? With our child?”

            They both noticed his hesitation.

            “Right,” she said, drawing a breath. “When that changes then I, too, will change my mind. John, you are allowed back to visit at any time. But I want you out. Sherlock, don’t you dare step in my house until you are a… a bloody _consulting stepfather.”_

            She turned and started up the stairs.

            “Leave now,” she called back at them. “I’m going to lose it and I want to do so in privacy.”

            Sherlock obediently grabbed his suit jacket from the coat hanger. “Do you need anything?”

            “No,” John said quietly, grabbing his wallet and keys. “I have enough there.”

            John shut the door behind them.

            He marched steadily away, forbidding himself to look back, while Sherlock grabbed his hand and hailed a cab with the other.

            “She is _delightful_ ,” he told John merrily. “Spending time around her will be much less loathsome than I’d first assumed.”

            “I need a cup of tea.”

            “Stop worrying,” he commanded him. “We have everything we need now. I can become an expert in parenting within a few weeks,  I already know all the strong research is in cognitive development. Does she have a particular theorist she favors?”

            “I need a _drink_.”

            Sherlock was growing rather impatient with John’s downcast look. He wanted John to _understand_ , they had _won_ , everyone was going to be happy and now John should smile… now John should smile and kiss him…

            John slipped his hand away and followed Sherlock in silence.


End file.
